Rawhide Robinson Rides a Dromedary Read online

  “See here, sailor. Rawhide Robinson will station himself on the bowsprit and cast a line around a whale’s flukes. You are to stand by here on the fo’c’sle and once the loop in the line is drawn taut, take a double hitch around a belaying pin and hold fast.”

  “Aye-aye, sir!” the sailor said with a snappy salute.

  Rawhide Robinson peeled off several coils of his lengthy lariat for his own use and handed the remaining rounds to his dally man.

  “Ensign Ian, soon as this sailor takes his dallies, have someone else tie off so we don’t lose our fish when he runs.”

  “You there,” the officer said to a nearby sailor. “As soon as practical after the catch, find a sturdy cleat and secure the line with a cleat hitch. The load will be heavy, so be mindful and make it proper.”

  Excitement built among the officers and crew and they crowded into every available space before the mast, even climbing into the rigging and perching on yards to witness a thing the like of which they could not have even imagined.

  Fortunately for Rawhide Robinson, the sea was still relatively calm despite the turbulence caused by the pod of whales. He had little trouble maintaining his balance on the bowsprit, and soon found himself perched perilously above the open ocean. But rather than contemplate the tenuous nature of the situation, he focused his concentration on shaking out a loop of appropriate size and determining which of the many shots—the roper’s term for the several types of loops and throws, varying by size, rotation, spin, angle, flight, position, and such—in his repertoire he should employ to provide the best opportunity of catching his whale by the tail. A small, tight dog loop, or a wide open Mother Hubbard? Should it be a simple toss, as in a horse corral? The single overhead whirl of the California twist? A Blocker loop, or perhaps a hooleyann? Rollout or magnana? Overhead loop? Underhand pitch? Backhand?

  All this and more mulled around in Rawhide Robinson’s mind as he watched the whales swimming about, waiting for one to lobtail nearby. But all that thought came to naught when a pair of flukes presented themselves—the cowboy reacted instantly and instinctively, and cast his twine with the perfect loop. It was a long throw, farther than he would have wished. But not knowing if a better opportunity would present itself he took his shot.

  The ship’s crew and officers watched with restrained breath as the loop sailed out, with the uncoiling rope trailing as it soared. It flew. It floated. It seemed to hang suspended in the air, then suddenly drop, surrounding the dripping flukes as they reached the apex of their path to a resounding slap on the water.

  Even before the report, Rawhide Robinson jerked the slack out of the loop, tightening it around the tail. As ordered, the sailor behind him stretched taut the line between himself and the cowboy and took not one, but a safe two, wraps around a belaying pin. As soon as his twists were taken, the sailor behind him executed as handsome a cleat hitch as ever witnessed.

  And so the humpback was caught. Never before, and perhaps never again, would any cowboy in the history of the craft dab a loop on such a trophy. Later, Ensign Ian Scott estimated the length of the leviathan at fifty feet, and calculated its weight as near forty tons.

  For a humpback whale of such proportions, a tight loop around the tail was a mere irritant. No doubt the giant felt a significant tug when he hit the end of the rope, but any reaction was indiscernible. That tug arrived even before the raucous cheer from the crew for the success of the cowboy’s capture had dissipated, and when the ship’s bow started carving a wake in the water with the propulsion of whale power, the celebration erupted anew.

  As anticipated by the resourceful Rawhide Robinson, the whale swiftly towed the USS Cordwood out of the doldrums and into favorable seas. A timely yank with a gaff hook released the loop and freed the humpback rescuer, who waved goodbye with a pectoral slap and dove for the deep, never to be seen again. His (her?) departure was accompanied by heartfelt huzzahs and hoorahs from the officers and crew, and the ship continued its voyage utilizing more accustomed motive power—wind and currents—to carry it toward the Straits of Gibraltar, the Mediterranean Sea, and Levantine ports of call.

  And, toward Rawhide Robinson’s expected showdown with Major Benjamin Wayne over the completion of this cockamamie quest to acquire camels.

  CHAPTER NINE

  * * *

  The USS Cordwood’s prow sliced through the sea with a hiss as it ran before the westerlies, northward and eastward toward its destination. Rawhide Robinson and Major Benjamin Wayne stood together as far forward (or fo’ard, in sailor parlance) in the bow as possible, cooled by the refreshing mist stirred up as the ship’s stem slapped the crests of passing waves.

  The cool went unnoticed, however, for a chill of another kind hung in the air between the men.

  “You could have told me the truth,” the cowboy said. “There weren’t no need to lie.”

  “As I’ve said before, Robinson, no one lied to you.”

  “Then how is it I find myself in the middle of the ocean before knowing I am on a fool’s errand to fetch camels?”

  “Because you chose—chose—to believe in a fantasy of your own fabrication concerning Arabian horses. No one, at any time, ever mentioned horses.”

  “No one ever mentioned camels, neither!”

  The major stalled, shifted, shuffled, and sheepishly acknowledged the fact. “But,” he said, “would you have signed on if we had?”

  “No! Not just no, but @#%%no!”

  “That’s the gist of it right there, Robinson. The army required your services and skills, and my orders were to acquire them. I took the steps necessary to fulfill my orders. When you latched onto the idea of horses, I felt it best to let you hold to that notion. We needed a man with a demonstrated ability to handle livestock and we’ve got one. You. The army—at least I—am confident your expertise with animals will translate to camels.”

  “Maybe so, maybe no,” Rawhide Robinson said. “And maybe I’ll hang back and let them critters mind their own business and I’ll tend to mine.”

  Crimson crept up the major’s neck as the chill between the two dissipated to be replaced by heat. “Need I remind you, Robinson, that handling and training the camels we acquire is your business! I have a contract that says as much, with your signature affixed.”

  Rawhide Robinson found himself speechless—a condition as rare as teeth in a hen’s beak. Still not content, the major piled on.

  “Besides that, Robinson, you are an American! This mission we share is in service to our country, and I say it is your patriotic duty to carry it out to the best of your ability!” Now it was the cowboy’s turn to stall, shift, shuffle, and sheepishly reply.

  “I reckon you’ve got a point, Major Wayne,” Rawhide Robinson said. “I suppose you can count on me. Maybe. We’ll have to see. Now, what is it about them camels that’s got you-all fired up?”

  The major explained that, despite opinions to the contrary, the idea to employ camels was carefully considered. It had been reviewed, evaluated, assessed, appraised, weighed, and measured for years. Support had waxed and waned depending on who led the War Department, who controlled Congress, and on shifting circumstances within the armed forces. But, despite the disapproval of many in the War Department and Congress, when all was said and done an agreement was reached, funds were allocated, and the mission in which the men were now entwined was mounted.

  “Camels are marvelous beasts,” Major Wayne said. “Given the conditions in the Southwest, there is no creature on earth better equipped to carry freight and supplies over the rugged terrain there to outfit our remote outposts in the region.”

  Rawhide Robinson lifted his lid to scratch his head. “I confess not knowing much about camels. I’ve picked up a bit here and there from reading and from picture books and such. I am of the opinion they are ugly, unruly, and stink to high heaven. And, as likely to spit on a man as look at him. Ain’t that so?”

  “Ugly is a matter of opinion. I would venture that rather than ugly, camels
are simply unfamiliar in our society. If an everyday presence, it is unlikely anyone would give them a second look. I admit they appear ungainly, but that is appearance only. Their locomotion can just as easily be seen as graceful, and they are surefooted.

  “Like any domesticated animal, the camel’s disposition varies. As with horses, mules, donkeys, oxen, water buffalo, reindeer, yaks, elephants, llamas, dogs, or other beasts of burden, most are docile while some can be uncooperative. Some so by nature, certainly, but more likely owing to insufficient or incompetent training and handling. Their odor, again, is a matter of opinion and familiarity. Hogs are smelly to the uninitiated. As are cattle, sheep, goats—well, I need not continue, Robinson. You take my point.”

  The cowboy nodded. “What about that spitting business?”

  Major Benjamin Wayne laughed. “I have heard that myself. According to our investigations—which are not firsthand, mind you—that is true. Then again, it is false.”

  “Huh?”

  “You see, the camel, like a cow, is a ruminant and chews a cud. When agitated, they say a camel might regurgitate a cud. Then, when shaking its head in anger or anxiety, will scatter the partially digested fodder hither and yon, indiscriminately spraying all within the vicinity with malodorous moisture.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Rawhide Robinson said. “There must be something more about them camels that convinced you-all to want them in your pack strings.”

  The army officer eagerly launched into a lengthy discourse on the advantages of camels as beasts of burden over the army’s accustomed horses and mules. He told how camels can easily carry twice, even three times, as much weight as a horse or mule. How dromedaries can cover half again as much country in a day. How they are less affected by temperature. How their hoofs, with hard nails and webbed toes and soft soles, are surefooted in all kinds of terrain. His enthusiasm overwhelmed the cowboy; the eager onslaught fairly tipping him back on his boot heels.

  Then, the major reached the acme of his argument.

  “As a sometimes inhabitant of the Southwest, Robinson, you are aware of its most serious lack—water.”

  The cowboy nodded. “I have experienced a mighty thirst many a time in that country,” he confessed.

  “Therein lies the camel’s greatest advantage,” Major Wayne said with a smile and so much enthusiasm the cowboy feared the man might burst on the spot, with a resultant shower similar to what might originate from an agitated camel.

  Rawhide Robinson said, “That’s because they carry water in that there hump on their back, ain’t it.”

  Major Wayne smiled. “That is a common misconception. One I, myself, held until my studies of the camel informed me otherwise. The hump is simply fat and flesh. But imagining it as water storage is a natural misreading given the camel’s unique metabolism—one that allows it to absorb much of the moisture it requires from plants and feed. In cool weather, a camel may not imbibe for weeks, even months, at a time. When the dromedary does drink, it can suction up twenty-five gallons of water in a matter of minutes,” the major said. “Unlike with horses, such gluttony does not cause sickness. And the camel is acclimated to desert conditions, so even in hot weather it requires less water and does not suffer from thirst as horses and mules do.”

  “Well, don’t that salt your frijoles!” Rawhide Robinson stood tall, tugged at the tails of his vest, lifted his thirteen-gallon hat, reset it with a firm tug and said, “Well, Major Wayne, I ain’t sayin’ I’m fond of the idea. But it looks like I’m stuck with being a camel caballero, a dromedary wrangler, so you can count on me to ride for the brand—or whatever they call it when herdin’ them humpback critters.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  * * *

  The sea biscuit, thrice-baked and six months and more in the bin, approached in hardness and tensile strength a Ninja throwing star. Which is what it resembled as it spun and sailed across the table, grazed the cheek of a young sailor named Norman, then embedded itself in the bulkhead a good three-quarters of an inch.

  Norman returned the favor of flung food, bouncing a bowl of dried peas boiled to mush off the bib of a man named Micah, he who had heaved the hard tack.

  Rawhide Robinson looked on in dismay, as the altercation and the ensuing mess in the mess resulted from a conversation, a debate, an argument of his making. It seemed a simple question when he asked it—the opinions of the several and sundry sailors sharing mess, concerning the superiority—or inferiority—of various breeds and kinds of horses.

  The cowboy was transfixed—and surprised—by the heated conversation aroused by his inquiry. He had not imagined these seafarers held such strong opinions about steeds nor, in fact, did he expect the equine expertise they displayed. But, as he mulled it over, he realized these men, while sailors in service of their country, were not born on a boat (ship), or raised on a boat (ship), nor did they live on a boat (ship) continuously. And while on solid ground, they, like everyone else, relied primarily on horsepower to get around. Whether ridden or driven, horses moved most people most places they needed to go, town and country. Sure, railroads handled long trips to and from cities large and small, but beyond that, it was horseback, buckboard, buggy, omnibus, or some other equine-operated perambulator.

  And so the sailors held forth with vim, vigor, and vehemence on the subject of which breed of horse was best for an assigned task. Given the dispersion of their natal places and their raising in widespread areas, sectional differences entered the argument, as did individual experience and plain old personal preference.

  A sailor raised on the Texas plains, familiar with cowboys and cattle and no stranger to the work himself, swore no horse could match the tenacity of the Spanish mustang.

  Another, raised on a Texas dirt farm, held forth for the Shire. “Them scrawny mustangs can’t hardly tow a steer, let alone pull a plow!” he said.

  Another sailor, of unknown origin, argued for crossing mustangs with American horses or Morgans or even oversized European stock like Clydesdales and Percherons. “Gives them bunch-quittin’ bangtails some size and strength and serenity,” he claimed.

  “That don’t do nothin’ but ruin a cow horse,” a kid from the Northwest averred. “Where I come from, they call them crossbreeds Percheron Puddin’ Foots or Oregon Bigfoots, on account of they got hoofs the size of a dinner plate and about half as agile.” The shavetail puffed out his chest and said, “You want a horse—a good horse—there ain’t none better than a Cayuse or an Appaloosa. Them Indian ponies is as good as they come.”

  “That may be true if you don’t mind a horse whose spotted hide might be mistaken for a milk cow’s,” someone countered. “You uncouth Westerners don’t know a thing about horseflesh! Kentucky and Tennessee—that’s where they know how to breed horses. Thoroughbreds. American Saddlers. Standardbreds. Those are horses!”

  An old salt, who had heretofore held his peace, entered the fray with a travelogue of sorts, populated with favorable reports of the horses he had observed in places far and wide. He reminisced about Brumbies in Australia, the Paso Fino of Puerto Rico, the Welsh Cobb of Great Britain, the leaping Lippizans he saw in Vienna, the Batak Pony of Asia, and many, many others. His vivid descriptions of fleet-footed Arabian horses prancing and pawing on desert dunes near brought a tear to Rawhide Robinson’s eye.

  The discussion went on. And on. And on, until devolving into hearty disagreements, harsh arguments, wholehearted quarrels, serious squabbles, and, in the end, the aforementioned eruption of victual violence. Which, in turn, invited the presence of angry officers, threats of incarceration, a week-long withdrawal of the daily ration of spirits, and a plea, offered in no uncertain terms, for civility.

  Once the argument abated and the near-riot was quelled, Rawhide Robinson, in an attempt to lighten the mood, offered his views on the subject.

  “Boys,” he said, “I never dreamed I was settin’ a match to such kindling when I asked the question. Cowboys such as myself, well, we augur over horses at some length at mo
st any opportunity. But with us, it’s all in good fun. I ain’t never seen no cowpunchers come to blows over horses.

  “Wait—I take that back. I do recall a cowboy from Colorado one time flailin’ a feller with his hat, on account of him questioning his cowhand credentials ’cause he had a mare in his saddle string. But that ain’t here nor there, neither one.

  “I’ve heard your boys’ ideas about the ideal horse, and as one who has made his living forking them critters for more years than I care to remember, I say you’re all wrong—every one of you.”

  That, as you might imagine, launched a sortie of angry ripostes and threatened the fragile peace.

  “Boys! Boys!” Rawhide Robinson said, rising and waving his hat overhead to waft the irritation out the room. “Calm down! When you hear what I am about to tell you, I guarantee that every last man of you will agree that this one particular equine I am aware of is better adapted to its occupation than any other four-footed creature of any kind, let alone horse.”

  While waiting for the murmuring and mumbling to subside, Rawhide Robinson scared up a coffee urn and refilled his mug. Then he sauntered over to the far side of the mess and hunkered down against the bulkhead—checking carefully so as not to lean against and impale himself on the sailed slab of sea biscuit still protruding from the plank. He blew the hot off the top of his coffee and waited until, like so many ocean swells, the recently subsided anger rose in a wave of eager anticipation, sweeping irresistibly over the cowboy until he tipped back his thirteen-gallon hat and launched his tale.

  “Out there in California there’s a range of mountains they call the Sierra. I reckon you’ve all heard of it.”

  Affirmation rippled through the room as sailors sounded their agreement.

  “Well, them mountains cover so much country—sideways, longways, and up and down—there’s places in them where nobody hardly ever goes. Even some places, I reckon, where nobody’s ever been. It’s a wild country. Rough and rugged and rocky. And steep. I’ll tell you boys, there’s places on them mountains where, if a man was to fall, he wouldn’t stop rollin’ downhill till next Tuesday.”